Inside Westminster: Tales of Hubris and Betrayal No 12
by mrsordinary54
Summary: 'Diamond's are a Girl's Best Friend' is a parody of the shenanigans of the British political 'elite'.


INSIDE WESTMINSTER: TALES OF HUBRIS AND BETRAYAL

12

DIAMONDS ARE A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND

Mandy had two days left to craft her future: she knew Potty would let her go without complaint as he'd done far worse things to others of her sex; her parents would eventually 'come round' and Juan had already declared undying love. What could go wrong?

Money, or rather the lack of it, was her main concern. In the modern age of feminism men had unfortunately got used to dating financially independent women. And she didn't want to seem a gold-digger. So she'd have to dream up some method of earning some money – and soon.

Her dash to Sri Lanka had coincided with starting a reasonably paid job in London - outside the Westminster bubble - as a 'girl Friday'. Pity she'd phoned to say she'd changed her mind. The organisation had been a bit put out by the lack of notice and accused her of being irresponsible. Still, if she'd learnt anything from her time with Potty it was never to admit anything, let alone guilt, never to apologise and, most important of all, never to have regrets.

'Waste of time. Onwards and upwards.'

Potty's words were ringing in her head just as her thoughts were distracted by a review of a tell-all book in 'Girl About Town' magazine. It was by one of the previous president of France's exes.

Mandy had long since admired the French attitude to relationships – so grown up, she thought. This woman was getting serious dosh in a book deal about a man she hadn't even bothered to marry. And she'd enjoyed all the trappings of being 'the first lady'. How unstuffy those continentals were; not like these Brits who take everything so seriously. Hopefully Juan would be 'continental' in his approach to life. Or not, as Mandy definitely wanted a ring on her finger to seal the deal.

Ptolomy Trudge-Jones, on the other hand and for once in his life, didn't have thoughts of sex upper-most in his mind. No, his leadership bid was coming alive again and he was the front-runner. He'd better get his act together and get his message out to the great unwashed. What better way than to write a belter for the paper the masses read, 'The Star'.

He carefully crafted his article using short punchy sentences and words that an 8 year-old could understand. Yes, 'absolute stinker' seemed a good description of the current Brexit deal and he added that the other side's negotiating style was 'claptrap' for good measure.

'Yes' he silently congratulated himself, 'that was the sort of language the masses understood.'

Mandy too, was starting her writerly path to success by phoning a contact – one of her many former beaus who owed her one for not blabbing about his impotence – to seal a deal, preferably with a hefty advance. Her chosen topic was, of course, a 'behind the scenes', 'warts and all' exposé of the Westminster bubble. She had endless anecdotes and would enjoy settling some old scores.

She knew where she'd begin her 'Tales of Hubris and Betrayal' - with a person well known to all the chief Brexiteers. Aden Beer - known as Shandy to friends and enemies alike as he was too small to be a full pint - was rumoured to have 'donated' several million to the most extreme of the Brexit campaign groups, . He was one of those short men who have to compensate for their lack of height by becoming seriously rich and by developing an overbearing persona. He was going to show everyone that he was not to be laughed at or bullied like he had been back at his local comprehensive. No, Shandy was now a tall man – aided by his expensive, custom made, height enhancing shoes – and no one was going to mess with him.

The fact that he'd wangled this financial gift from a secret off-shore trust fund, linked to several dubious donor countries was neither here nor there. Until the National Crime Agency investigated and charged him with making illegal donations, tax evasion and having inappropriate links to communist regimes. All of which he vehemently denied.

Oh how he wished he'd stayed sunning himself on his super yacht 'Flighty', moored off St Tropez and never got involved with this Brexit bullshit. It really had unleashed the most catastrophic venting of rage and resentment and all the stacked shoes in the world were not going to cure this one.

Mandy began her docu-drama – as she liked to call it, since it was going to be a sort of fictionalised truth – with an incident between her and the aforementioned donor. But more of that later, as her authorial reverie was broken by Juan returning from yet another meeting with the Guards Polo Team.

'Fixtures for next year sorted,' he said in a marvellously confident manner, 'so let's celebrate.'

'Man after my own heart,' Mandy thought. 'Any excuse for a party!'

'Shall we go and treat ourselves in Harrods?'

Mandy's heart raced. Was he going to buy her a ring? She knew she should play it cool but couldn't stop herself blushing with excitement.

'I don't mind,' she cooed, 'or we could celebrate here.'

He grabbed her by the arm, drawing her instantly to his chest...and off they went on another session of sublime sex, their fourth time since arriving in their sumptuous suite. Mandy just couldn't believe her luck in having found this glorious hunk. But how was she going to get him to seal the deal with a whopping engagement ring – diamond, of course?


End file.
